6

It is by a great convenience that my phone’s alarm manages to reach my slumbering ears all the way from my bedroom. It is subtler from such a distance, but the familiar sound is still enough to wake me up from my catatonic sleep.

The first sensations I can feel upon being moved from perfect rest are ones of pain. Pain in my limbs, in my joints—most of all in my back, which is certainly accustomed to the pleasant softness of my mattress. I wrestle my arms from their awkward place at my sides and angle them underneath me, pushing myself upright. Once my back is straight, I groan. I lift my hand and massage the back of my head, which is in a particularly bruised state.

With some more difficulty I manage to leverage myself off the floor and onto my feet. I stumble a little when erect, requiring the wall to stabilise my movements. My groggy eyes adjust to see the floor more clearly, and I am reminded of the clutter of the MREs decorating my place of rest.

I am allowed two more breaths of confusion, before my mind recognises the present moment once again, and my foremost priority fills my mind.

Work.

My first few steps into the bedroom are still an amble, but I regain most of my wits by the time I reach the wardrobe. I retrieve a passable shirt and some jeans from inside, kneeling down for some undergarments, and I make my way to the bathroom to freshen up a little before showing my face to the world.

As I am brushing my teeth, the thoughts from the night before wander into my mind, and I smile.

It worked, I think, it actually worked.

I continue to linger on the wondrous feeling produced by these thoughts, all the way from my apartment door to work. The delight is only half retrospective, however. I wonder what the next steps will be for my project. The success was a wonderful one, of course, but the machine is still far from perfect. It does not need much consideration to understand that the tuning system needs to be improved, that the overall design itself can still be reworked, and that there is still a lot to polish before even considering the next big step in the project’s future.

Emplecix, I read as I step out of my car, in large bold letters atop my company building. Once the project has birthed its prototypical sample, I will be ready to present it to the higher-ups at work, who will no doubt see the device’s magnificent potential. This prospect tickles me: only a few days ago the potential this machine promised seemed almost exclusively fantastical, confined solely to the possibilities of the strictly theoretical; and now, I am imagining the entirely real action of revealing it to the wider world, attaching my own name onto its patent. Fluttering from joy, I proceed into my work building, where I find my desk as always. 

As the work day passes, I find myself uninterrupted by any of my colleagues, however the same cannot be said for my own thoughts. For the second day in a row, I am simply unable to focus on the work present on my desk; however, unlike yesterday, the thoughts that are obstructing my attention are not at all pernicious. Instead, although I am still presenting a poor image of my usual diligence at the workplace, I find myself simply too thrilled by my own work to pretend that the items in front of me hold any light to what awaits me at home. I instead politely wait for the clock to reach a respectable hour, and once I can imagine that no one could possibly ask for me any longer, I abandon my desk in haste and make my way back home. In the elevator mirror I catch a glimpse of myself before it reaches the ground floor. I am smiling, though I cannot even feel it. I cannot remember the last time I felt this happy.

Strolling gaily through the apartment building lobby and into the elevator, the seconds draw on forever as I wait to make it all the way to my floor, and my first step out the door propels me down the corridor. Almost skipping, I reach my neighbour’s apartment, where I stop firmly in place. Before making my presence known, I let my eyes rest on the bronze digits on the door’s surface. I realise that for the first time since my neighbour moved in, I do not regard those numbers with any negative feeling. Instead, I invite their presence, for from the time of my neighbour’s visit to my apartment last evening, I have now begun to feel about him as a friend rather than a nuisance. Recognising this development, I choose not to delay meeting my new friend any longer, and knock firmly on the apartment door. My cheer is echoed even further when I can hear the knocks clearly, as they are not obscured by any noise coming from inside the apartment.

I hear gentle, muffled steps approaching me before the lock is turned from inside and the door is opened. Jack appears from behind it, an expression of surprise materialising when he sees me. 

‘Uhm, hello,’ he says with uncertainty.

‘Good afternoon,’ I greet in return. I feel my lips curve into an even mightier smile than the one I have been maintaining all day.

My neighbour remains stupefied by what to say. Unlike all my previous visits, there does not appear to be any inciting incident that should call me to his door. I can see the calculation in his eyes as he attempts to decode why I might have taken the time to disrupt him today.

‘How can I help you?’ he finally says, giving up the search for his own answer.

My neighbour’s unfortunate assumption of defence leaves me required to disarm his discomfort. I need to ease him into the unusual fact that I wish to see him today simply because I feel I might enjoy his company—a fact that is no less unusual to him as it is to me. The moment I realise that this is what I must do, however, I notice that I am not at all sure how I should proceed in doing so. I have never before deemed it necessary to placate another’s feelings of uncertainty, always addressing the most pressing matters of fact that tend to my own desired resolution. As such, now I am forced to invent such an approach in the moment. I quickly search my vocabulary to find the words that I need. After an instant too long of silence, I begin to fear that I might be entirely missing such words.

‘I, uhm…’ I begin, but find myself at a loss very quickly. I search for a moment longer, then continue. ‘I wanted to drop by to see how you were doing.’

Here my eyes slightly cringe, expecting a confused reaction from my neighbour, but I see no change for the worse in his expression. He steps back a single step, opening a path past his door.

‘Come on in,’ he invites me simply.

Accepting the amicable progression as it unravels before me, I pleasantly walk into my neighbour’s apartment. He stays put as I enter, watching me walk past him, and closes the door behind me once I’m inside.

‘Would you like some water?’ he asks from behind me. I turn my head to watch him close the door, flashing a glance as he depresses the handle.

‘Yes please,’ I say. Am I smiling now? I wonder. I focus on my lips, but cannot tell.

Jake walks through the sitting room doorway into the kitchen, leaving me lagging behind in the hallway. In the moment I stay there, I notice now that the clutter on the floor of the hallway has been entirely removed, the floor now perfectly clean. I allow myself this moment of acknowledgment, then enter the sitting room without waiting for Jake’s permission. 

As I walk in, I am amazed at how different the room looks from the last time I saw it. Like the hallway, the floor litter is completely gone, and that alone helps the space exude greater cleanliness. Placing calm steps deeper into the room, I quickly scan the things around me, taking in everything obvious and subtle that has changed. The cleaning appears to be the most of it, but just as I am about to abandon my curiosity, my eyes are caught on the old CRT television in the corner. I see that it has been changed, the screen is different and there are some visible parts at its back that have been added to it. I wonder briefly about the modifications that have been done to it, when I hear the tap turn on, and my attention is drawn to my neighbour.

Jake pours some tap water into a glass and hands it over to me.

‘So,’ he says, a new calmness, perhaps even pleasantness in his voice, ‘did you get much sleep last night?’

Taking the glass from his hand, I recall our encounter from less than twenty-four hours before, and I blush.

‘Ah,’ I say, my eyes automatically falling to my drink before I call them back up, ‘yes, I’m sorry about that. That was… I don’t usually do that. It was very unusual of me.’

Jake pulls out a chair from under his kitchen table and sits down. He leans forward on his elbows in a calculating yet relaxed posture, and smiles.

‘Don’t worry about it,’ he says, ‘I think I might have come off a bit aggressive there. I… I don’t usually lose my cool like that either.’

‘Please,’ I say, ‘you were entirely justified to complain. How hypocritical of me to come to you complaining about you making noise and then I myself go and disturb you in the same way. I really did feel embarrassed last night—I still do…’ 

Staggering me in my chain of thought, I notice a subtle change in my neighbour’s appearance at the mention of my first visit. His right hand, previously idle on the table, tensely clasps his left, and his eyes acquire a new sharpness that is so slight it avoids any expression through his facial features. Seeing this subtle shift, I am struck by a thought. How does he, my new neighbour, see the past few days?

Jake, perhaps noticing his shift in tone, slips a smile onto his lips and quickly calms his agitated hands.

‘Well then, there’s enough embarrassment to go around,’ he says, ‘I say we pretend that last night didn’t happen.’

That is enough to dismiss my thoughts of concern and usher a little smile on my lips.

‘Yeah,’ I say, ‘I like that idea.’

We wander into a brief silence. My eyes unconsciously drift back to the television in the corner. I try to give it a better look, throwing it little glances to conceal the attention I am giving it. I realise now that the screen is completely white and matte, no reflections visible on its surface. In fact, I think, it looks a bit like…

‘That’s what I’ve been working on recently,’ comments my neighbour. A quick look at him finds him admiring the television, no doubt noticing that I was looking at it myself. ‘It’s a… uhm…’

Jake rises from his spot at the table and walks into the centre of the room, striding up next to me. I watch his searching expression, looking for the words he needs.

‘You know what?’ he says, flashing me a look and a smile, ‘I think it would be easiest to show you.’

I watch Jake move up to the television and crouch down in front of it. Reaching his hand around the back, he produces a small circuit board crudely soldered to wires that connect it with the television. With his free hand Jake grabs a lone loose cable coming from the circuit board, and reaching into his pocket produces his phone. He connects the cable to it, then begins to look for something on its display.

Jake loses himself like this for a little while, sinking all his focus into his phone. I try to spot what it is he’s doing, but without moving from my place in the room I cannot make out his screen, so I decide to wait patiently until my neighbour returns his attention to me.

Then, in a sudden twitch, the screen of the television changes colour from the initial white to a bright red. Jake looks up from his phone to notice the shift, and smiles to himself. Returning briefly to his screen, he stands up from his crouch, dragging the length of the cable as he takes a few steps away from the television.

‘Ok,’ he says, lifting his finger in definitive preparation to tap on his phone, ‘this one is good.’

My eyes, glued to Jake’s finger, see him press it onto the phone screen, then dart quickly back to the television. There they remain fixed, as I am paralysed by what they see.

First, a wave of colour washes over the television screen, demonstrating a gradient from one corner to the next. Once it passes through all the colours, the image immediately snaps into a clear picture, one of a bright countryside as seen from the window of a train. At first, the picture moves slowly, the train only accelerating, but once the vehicle speeds up, an impressive show of shifting colours capturing the natural beauty of the landscape possesses the convex surface of the display. I can feel my mouth drop slightly agape as disbelief consumes me whole, and I accept with definite certainty that my initial suspicion, which I had dismissed without any former doubt, turns out to be true.

‘What do you think?’ asks my neighbour. I can sense him looking at me from the side of my vision, but I cannot turn around to meet him. I am simply too amazed by the fluid transition of colours, the seamless motion, the series of frame-by-frame masterpieces generated by the living cloth display.

‘I…’ I begin, but feel the breath escape my lungs without sound to follow.

How…? I ask myself, with a million different questions to complete the inquiry. How did he solve the static issue? How did he manage such fidelity in the colours? How…

‘It can show any video up to one hundred frames per second with a perfectly analogue display. I just found this one online to test it, but I have to say it’s my favourite. It demonstrates the transitions between frames very beautifully.’

The two of us stand in silence for a few more seconds, watching the train travel through the sunlit fields. After a moment, I begin to feel numb watching the view, the reality before me draining me of all strength to move or feel. I almost collapse into complete detachment, belonging entirely to the train’s journey through another world, when the display suddenly shifts back to blank white, the video coming to an end.

‘The original is longer,’ my neighbour comments, ambling back up to the television and resuming his crouched position next to it, ‘I cut it short for demo purposes. This is only a prototype, but I think I will have a 1.0 ready soon enough.’

Jake reaches back behind the television and disconnects his phone. Replacing it in his pocket, he walks past me into the kitchen. As he passes me, I catch a glimpse of his eyes, briefly meeting my own in a glance. Though the look is superficially perfectly innocent, I look within them and feel an intense force emanating from deep inside. A resounding energy, as if to say, I know. For how could I not know?

Jake lands in the kitchen, and I can hear the tap come on again, this time for his own glass of water. I hear him gently slide the cupboard closed, and the tap turns off.

Despite the display being long turned off, my eyes are still fixed on the television. The image of the train moving through the countryside is ingrained in my mind, and the eidetic image still persists when I blink. The television starts to become the only thing in the room which exists, and I feel the room begin to shrink, a tunnel closing in on the modified CRT. Soon, my eyes begin to blur, and I can feel myself losing my balance. I take some steps backwards in an attempt to find it, but before long, I lose my grip on my glass of water, sending it plummeting to the freshly cleaned floor, and tumble down myself shortly after it.

Before landing with my back on the floor, I catch and prop myself up, finding an awkward leaned back position as my neighbour runs over to me.

‘Hey,’ he says, materialising promptly next to me, ‘are you alright?’

I see him extend his hand to offer me help up, and with embarrassed hesitation I grab it.

‘Yes,’ I say in a fumbled tone, ‘I just…’

I just what? What just happened? I cannot say for sure, but an excuse is not difficult to compose.

‘I just feel a bit tired after work,’ I say, ‘I think I should get back to my own apartment.’

‘Of course,’ agrees my neighbour.

Without my own attention being drawn there, I see Jake’s eyes move towards the glass. Luckily it did not shatter from the drop, only spilling what little water was left inside.

‘Don’t worry about the glass,’ he assures me with a faint smile. ‘It’s only a bit of water.’

Jake walks behind me in his usual manner as I find my way back to the door. Although my steps are now perfectly firm, I can sense some uneasiness in his observation of me, monitoring to see if I won’t fall down again. When he opens the door and I step out into the corridor, I notice him stepping further out than he usually does, not so hasty to break off the engagement.

Too dazed to come up with any more niceties to say, I simply awkwardly nod at my neighbour to indicate a goodbye, but right before I am about to take my first step away, he speaks up.

‘You know…’ he says urgently, before trailing off, both in words and in expression. His eyes fall to the ground, and I can see him struggling to communicate what he wants to say. After a second, his cheeks flare up in a faint but noticeable blush, and his eyes come back to me. ‘Feel free to drop by and see how I’m doing more often.’

Somewhat surprised by his words, I express only some sympathy, and after a pause I deem polite, I give the same quick nod I had prepared before his postscript, and promptly begin my way back down the corridor. Once I reach my door I give a quick glance back, and see that my neighbour’s head is poking out of the door, watching me return to my apartment. He must really be concerned after my fall, I think, and swiftly swing my door open and place myself behind it, shutting it with quiet haste, relieved to be freed of his presence.

Once in the silence of my apartment, I allow myself to think more freely about what occurred during my visit. 

What happened? I wonder. I have never felt so drained of energy as I had moments before I fell. What could have possibly caused me to feel like that?

Despite the question, once again, I feel like I know the answer, but this time it is more concealed from me than before. Somewhere in the recesses of my mind I can feel it lurking, but any motion I make to approach it, I feel a boiling impossibility stopping me in my tracks, denying any chance of learning the answer.

I am not stupid enough to not realise the association with the living cloth display I saw created and perfected in my neighbour’s apartment, but exactly what part of that reality shatters me so profoundly is a mystery. How could he know of the device? That question continues to echo in my mind since the moment I saw my neighbour’s creation, but only now does it acquire form. How could he know? Did he break into my apartment? Was that what was worrying me so much? It certainly must worry me at least somewhat, since it’s not a possibility that can be brushed off with any haste. And yet, could it ever worry me enough to deprive me of all my strength, send me tumbling to the ground? Is that the answer to my question?

Is it that he got it to work?

Like the flicker of a flame, the thought snaps into existence, igniting a trembling nerve inside me. The project that has haunted me for so long, plagued me from the unreachable spot at the back of my mind, painting every success with a sepia of insufficiency; has he truly, in a blink of time, solved it? A matter of moments after inheriting my appreciation for silence and solitude, my neighbour appears to have exceeded me in an aspect I have for long now considered my greatest deficiency. And to contribute further to my suffering: does he even know? There was a nonchalance to his actions and movements, to the words he used to mention his creation. He did not seem to wish to torment me with them, as he would if he knew just how desperately I sought to understand how he achieved what he achieved. However impossible it might seem that the two of us conceived the same exact idea in parallel, if it were to indeed be true, he couldn’t possibly understand the agony he inflicted on me by showing me the device. He simply created. The device, it simply is. My greatest obstacle, trivialised. The depth of my ego shattered.

I meander my way through my hallway into my bedroom. Despite the torrent of feelings that are running through every fibre of my body, I am stable on my feet. I am overwhelmed and drowning in fear and uncertainty, but there is a numbness to such a barrage of sensations. It is as though I am standing in the eye of a tornado, pushed by the winds from one side, then counterbalanced by the winds from the other, keeping me still and never falling. 

I amble up to my desk chair and sit down. I look plainly at the project before me. What is there to see? The image appears blurred, a single mass of colour amounting to nothing both in substance and in meaning. I do not care for any of it in the slightest. 

I rise up from my chair only seconds after sitting down. My feet carry me to my bed. I slink into it, my head landing on my pillow, facing the ceiling. I stare into it blankly for some time. I try to think of my body, how it feels. It feels a little like nothing. My eyes do not drift from the ceiling. They only close, sending me into an apathetic sleep.

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